


Cloudy Eyes

by orphan_account



Series: AI in the attic [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - No Game, Angst, Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Dirk Strider and Dave's Bro Are the Same Person, Gen, Manipulation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 02:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16379645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You have braces. The power chains are red. They’re always red. It’s like a law in Dave Town. Everything has to be red. (Hal’s red, too.)





	Cloudy Eyes

Middle school is… Well, it’s _tough_.  
  
Your name is Dave Strider, and school is honestly the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. You’re thirteen, scrawny, _short_ , and still have a baby face that your shades only hide on a good day.  
  
Though, they’re for a lot more than that. It took quite a lot of talk between the principle and your Bro to convince them to let you keep them on, even in class. Honestly, you still have no idea how he managed. You guess he flirted with her, or something, probably. That sounds like a Bro Strider thing to do. Which is pretty hilarious, cause you know your brother is _really_ gay. He’s so cool, honestly. You wish you could be as cool as your Bro, all the time. But he’s one cool dude, and you’re _you_.  
  
Not like it matters. You yourself are still really confused in the boys vs girls department. You like guys and girls, but you’re young and sex is kind of a weird topic. Most kids that are your age still aren’t familiar with it. Keyword being _most_ kids. You’re not just familiar with it, you’re basically it’s second cousin three times removed. Not to say you’ve ever had sex, you certainly have not, but you’re surrounded by plush sex toys and posters of puppets being fingered all day. Plus, Bro is pretty open when he watches porn in his room, also known as the living room, and you’ve walked in on that _plenty_. Not the most enjoyable times of your life, for sure.  
  
There aren’t boundaries in your apartment. There wouldn’t be even if you wanted them. An apartment littered with his porn star plushies, ninja stars, and a fridge of swords yet so little food, and that stupid puppet Lil Cal; it’s small and hard to avoid each other. You hoard your favorite snacks in hiding spots around your room, not willing to go hungry when he comes home drunk and has a late night binge.  
  
With one tiny bathroom, it’s pretty common he gets ready for a gig while you’re taking a shower, or vice versa. Most of your dough is _probably_ spent on the water bill. Bro’s a big fan of long showers, mostly when he’s getting ready for a gig. While he was in there he’d yelled at you to go get some box from the tiny ass attic, needed it for work, and when you did you ended up finding something that was super duper _not what you were sent to get_. In fact, these shades were probably never meant for you to witness. Yet, you took them without asking _and_ abandoned getting the box. Aha, you’re fucked.  
  
You needed to get your skinny ass out of the attic and eat before school, but you ran out of time conversing with the red texted AI. Honestly, you don’t usually eat before or during school anyways. Tends to come back up for some gross reasons. Bullies, am I _right_?  
  
Either way, today marks your third day in middle school. You already want to drop out. Sure, you’re pretty fucking cool, but you’re smaller than most kids your age. Plus you’re allowed shades for ‘health reasons’. Which isn’t entirely wrong, you’d be riddled with migraines from how bright the rooms are without them- but, back to the point. That’s more than enough reason to get you on the shit list with all the older kids. Boy, does it suck. They’re _huge_ compared to you!  
  
Fifteen-years-old and an inch from hardcore puberty. Actually, two of them already hit that mark, you guess that’s why the three of them hang out. They’re a bit ahead of their age. One of them also seems to really have issues with loud noises and paying attention. They probably get shit for that, and you’re a cool person. So you kind of get it. Beat on the little guy before they _become_ the little guy in high school, right? Yeah. Kind of like how Bro gets to beat on the little guy before you become taller than him. Probably. Maybe. _You better._  
  
You’ll be really upset with your body if it doesn’t end up taller than Bro’s. Yet, considering your height vs age? It’s looking like you won't end up towering over him. He always teases the shit out of you for looking like a damn ten-year-old, or some shit. _Rude_. That’s what you tell him, which usually just gets a wordless, “don’t be a bitch, Dave.” from him.  
  
You know your Bro really well. You two can have completely silent arguments that span five seconds, two looks, and one huff of breath in defeat from you. That’s one thing that you have with him over your bullies. You know when it’s coming, know how bad it’ll be, and expect it.  
  
These kids? They’re walking mysteries. You don’t understand half their body language, and the shit they spout is nonsense to you. Are they being blunt, trying to trick you, or what? One day it’s a wet willy, the next they’re bashing your face into the brick wall. Today they’re doing the brick wall thing. Yeah. Today _sucks_.

You barely escaped Hal being damaged. Luckily, you had swapped shades out before class, hiding your face in your locker to do it. You told Hal that it probably wasn’t a good idea for you to wear him all day, but you didn’t explain why even though he got pretty pissy with you for dodging the question.

Though, now he probably knows. He’s settled safely in your backpack, which you had carefully gotten well out of the way before this scuffle began, so you know he can likely hear all that’s happening… Thankfully, at least, he can’t _see_ this pathetic shit show.  
  
Your nose is bloody as you push yourself away from the scratchy baked clay bricks. It’s gonna bruise _bad_ and you can already tell that. (Luckily your shades just have tiny scratches you can buff out no problem-o.) Your hands are all scuffed up, too. You already had bruises galore on you from a training sesh with Bro, this has managed to make them twice as sore and probably three times as dark. How do they manage to always fucking pick them out? You hide them really well with your clothes. Baggy, bright red hoodie, black basketball shorts that look way too big on you. You look like a douchey kid. You kind of are?

Oh, wait, yeah, you were getting your ass kicked a second ago weren’t you?  
  
The teens aren’t done with you. No way. They smelt blood and now they’re like wolves on a hunt. Snarling, drooling and howling to each other. Forming a plan on how to best snuff your little life out with their nasty, big, sweaty hands. It’s like you're nothing more than a tiny, useless lamb to them. Ready to be devoured and torn to shreds. Innocence is fleeting, you’re already bleeding. Your head hurts trying to think of a better rhyme.  
  
You’d cry, beg them to stop if it weren’t for the fact what they do isn’t shit on what Bro puts you through. Whatever, though. They’re just messed up kids. Your Bro is so _cool_. He teaches you how to fight in these situations! You dodged some pretty heavy hits, even jab your tiny fingers into one guy’s rib area and get a hiss out of him. You noticed he was protecting that spot. Bro taught you how to eye for that kind of weaknesses by doing it to you.  
  
If you didn’t train all the time, you’d just be a snot-nosed crybaby who can’t fight back. Well. There _are_ tears stinging in your eyes, but you won’t cry. You refuse. The biggest guy, you never remember his name so let's just call him Jerk-Butt. Him. He reels back, and _oh boy_ you’ve been hit by this plenty. You know it’s gonna hurt. It always hurts.

Hurt it does.  
  
His fist makes contact right into your stomach, right into an already bruised and irritated area, you double over. It’s strong enough of a hit on your little kid body that you throw up from the impact. You’re gagging, looking up at the viewers with a pretty horrified expression. I mean, _fuck_ , Jerk-Butt hit way harder than usual. Even after you stop vomiting, you feel sick. It hurts _really_ fucking bad. Even Jerk-Butt looks a little nervous. Only now does some punk go get a teacher, screaming their kiddie little head off.

“Mr. Egbert! _Help!_ There’s a fight!” Oh yeah, what a _hero_. Couldn’t do that five fucking minutes ago? Whatever. You opt to just slide down the wall and curl up on the ground, holding onto your stomach as the other kids around you run off. None of them want to get caught for watching this, after all...  
  
Said teacher is soon running out of the building, onto the field, out to you and the hoard of other kids flocking in different directions to get away from the scene. But the teens ran off before he could get there. _Great_. Now you’re left crying your eyes out, heaving _and_ have blood oozing out of your nostrils! Bro’s _not_ gonna be impressed.

That’s the only train of thought you have as you wipe the bile off your mouth with the back of your hand. You know the teacher is gonna call him this time, you convinced him not to plenty; but he looks like he’s tired of giving in. Or maybe he just figured you’re definitely not telling your Bro. I mean, why would you? He’d do you one worse.

As the man helps you rise up and steady yourself on your feet, he scoops up your backpack, hands it over to you. It’s one of those shows of kindness that you don’t really know how to respond to, aren’t used to. You mutter a soft thanks, hooking the bag over your shoulder and trying to not jostle your stomach more than needed. The walk into his office was one of shame.  
  
So, here you are. Sitting on an uneven chair, rocking yourself on it. Listening to the little thuds as it changes which feet it has its weight on. Your hoodie is red, so where the blood is on it just looks damp, at least. Your teacher gave you a few wet wipes and a cup of water. You downed the water so fast. The wet wipes are halfheartedly scrubbed against your face, even though the pain is enough to draw a tiny cry from you and a worried look from your homeroom teacher.

He’s really nice. He has a kid your age, John you think, but he’s home-schooled. Mr. Egbert had suggested it to you, which you find kind of funny considering his job… But maybe this is why he had.  
  
He has a picture of John on his desk, with himself and some elderly lady. You guess that’s Mr. Egbert’s mom. You don’t know who your Bro’s mom is, but you don’t really care. You _do_ know who your mom is, but you also know she’s not in your life. (Hal seemed sensitive about it when you mentioned her earlier.) You have your Bro, though, so you don’t need or want anyone else… Well, you say that, yet here you are. Digging your dirty hands into your bag. Swapping your shades out for Hal. Maybe you need someone, but you don’t need a mom. You ignore the ache at the idea, knowing how kind she is to Rose.

You want someone to talk to, someone who’s not a teacher. You… You kind of want Bro, kind of feel a sting in your chest where you want to curl up in someone's arms and maybe just break down crying. You’re worried you’re about to do just that with the kind teacher of yours. Hal won't do any of that, you know, but that’s kind of why you decide to open up the chat with him. You notice that red glow return, sigh a little.

TG: you didnt get damaged did you

TT: No.

TT: Did Dirk fail to teach you how to fight? You look disgusting. I’m disappointed by your sheer lack of physical strength.

Ooookay, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, after all. You ignore the text, decide against replying. You look back to the photo of Mr. Egbert’s kid. John looks like a nerd. He’s got buck teeth, definitely needs those filed and maybe some braces, too. You have braces. The power chains are red. They’re always red. It’s like a law in Dave Town. _Everything_ has to be _red_. (Hal’s red, too.)  
  
Well, your shorts aren’t. Actually, you wonder why they aren’t. It would totally be a look, red on red. You should even get them in a slightly darker shade of the color. Enough of a difference that it’s easy to tell you chose it that way on purpose, but small enough it’s irritating to anyone who doesn’t like your sense of fashion.

TT: He is your teacher, correct?

You look back up to the guy across from you. He’s pretty bland to look at. He’s got a good-looking face, but nothing outstanding. There’s some stubble, more than Bro’s, but it’s not just on his jaw. He’s got a button-up white shirt and white slacks, which is _so_ tacky together. His shoes are some weird gray dress shoes. You decide this guy is really, _really_ bland. You remember your Bro commenting that he’s got an amazing ass. You guess he’s right. It’s Bro, of course, he’s right. You’re such an idiot for even doubting it. Probably just too young to get it. Yeah.

TG: no but hes a teacher

The man offers you a little smile, hums softly at you. “Do you feel okay?” His voice is really nice.  
You like it a lot. It’s the main reason he’s someone you could ever trust. Which is dumb. A bad idea. You shouldn’t trust anyone. “I’m cool, dawg.” You heard some guy on TV use that, so you definitely have sprinkled the word here and there. It’s pretty fun to say and apparently gets brownie points from Bro. Is it cool, or ironic…? You can’t really tell. Mr. Egbert returns to whatever the fuck he’s doing, and you exhale heavily.

TT: Your heart rate has decreased to a more stable pace, which suggests you feel quite comfortable with this man. Explain your relationship, it can’t be merely teacher-student.

TG: that sounds like a really bad porn intro

TG: hes nice to me thats all

TG: not many people are

TT: I see.

It takes tops two more minutes before the door opens, and you’re left sitting in your seat with your metaphoric tail between your legs. _He’s here_ … You don’t even look back, you know it’s your Bro. His aura bleeds wherever he goes.  
  
Mr. Egbert stands up, offers a smile as he motions to the other seat before he sits back down. “Hello, Mr. Strider” He greets in his usual nice tone. “Bro’s fine.” You cringe a little as you realize you still have Hal on as Bro’s gaze lands on you and his brows draw together. _Shit_. “Ahem… Alright, Mr. Strider, thank you for coming.” You keep your head down, let your hair hide any evidence of what went down. The shades had slid down on your nose, covering most of the bruise from your Bro.  
  
Mr. Egbert didn’t specify on the phone, maybe you can get away with it? “What’d Dave do?” Yeah, that’s how this used to go in elementary back when you were tough shit. Biggest in your class. _Starting_ all the fights and arguments. Acting out for attention. Jesus, what happened over summer?  
  
“He didn’t do anything wrong. Please, sit.” Finally, Bro takes a seat. Keeps his arms crossed, brings an ankle up over his thigh. You idly mess with his shoe strings, he doesn’t seem to care. This is pretty normal. It’s nice to be on familiar water, even if it’s only for a moment. Though, you’re curious as to why Hal has suddenly gone so quiet.  
  
“Well, you see, I’ve had to go break up a few fights. Dave has often been the victim of these. Middle school is tough for all children, but, it seems like a few enjoy making your son-” Your stomach drops, he’s mentioning the fight. You can’t weasel out of this. “ _Li’l bro_.” Bro interrupts. “Erm, little brother… Target practice. In a phrase.” Bro doesn’t seem too worried. Probably thinks you bite back, you could. You just… Don’t really want to.  
  
“Kid, you been kickin’ ass?” You shake your head a little, and his leg goes back down onto the floor. You lose your point of interest, his laces, which you tied into like six knots. Haha, good luck getting those off, Bro. You won't look at him.  
  
“ _Dave_.” It’s stern, and you tear your eyes away from the floor to meet his gaze, but find yourself too weak to do that for long. You just kind of stare at the point of those silly shades. Now they match the ones you’re wearing. Minus the soft red glow, which you noticed was reflected back off Bro’s own shades.  
  
Now, he mumbles something to Mr. Egbert, and he’s handed another wet wipe. You flinch away from his touch, but when you accept it you find… It’s _gentle_. It’s that familiar, soft touch he leaves after he hurts you more than he means to in a strife. Pushes a little too far, and you can’t handle it. None of that is ever his fault. You just need to get better, so he doesn’t worry so much about you. He shouldn’t have to hold back. You’re old enough to handle it.  
  
You find yourself melting, he’s letting your chin rest in his palm as his thumb and index finger hold your jaw. His touch is so light, so very careful as he cleans away the blood on your nose you’d missed. It doesn’t even hurt. He goes so far as to get a new clean one, eases your (his?) shades up after giving you a silent warning. Your eyes are closed, but you can feel him softly rubbing away tear stains.  
  
You really love your Bro. Really love when he’s sweet and soft like this. It makes you want to curl up in his arms, cry or maybe die. Probably both. You’re not surprised he’s doing it in front of your teacher… But you are surprised he feels he has to. Do you look that bad? “Looks like his nose is broke.” Question answered.

“You let punks do this? Ain’t you supposed to watch them?” There’s a mock concerned bite to his voice, and your tiny hands grab onto one of his. He stops, looks back to you. Sunlight kind of hurts your eyes a lot, and he moves to put the shades back in place when he notices the wince. Hal is still quiet, even as he’s returned. Which, you quietly note that he was given back. You take it as a silent “keep him”.  
  
“He’s the only teacher who cares, Bro, the kids usually drag me where no one can see.” You explain softly. Egbert looks _exhausted_. He’s always so damn nice to you, too. “Still, kid… Look at you. The bruise is spreading under your eye. S’blood shot.” Now Mr. Egbert stands up, comes around after Bro allows him. Bro won't let him touch, though, not even come close enough to reach. He moves your shades for you, nudges Mr. Egbert to back off a bit when you flinch. He pretends, so casually, that this is the first time your nose has ever broken from a hard hit.  
  
“That’s _much_ worse than I thought it was… Dave, who did this?” You don’t know the kid’s name. You also know he’s got bruises on his skin in places no one else would think to look. Bruises that look like harsh handprints. He has enough to deal with, and you’re okay with being a scapegoat to someone who deserves a way to release that. Bro lets you fight back, he doesn’t abuse you. You couldn’t imagine how awful it must be for Jerk-Butt. You should really try to remember his name.

“It’s no one.” You lie, obviously, and neither your teacher or Bro look too convinced. You give Bro a look, and in return, he gives you a hard stare. When you don’t back down, he sighs.  
  
“Kid won't tell us. If he hasn’t now, he won't, period.” Bro explains. He’s understanding. You think you’ll tell him, without names, on the car ride home. You… You _really_ want to go home. You’re thinking about the fact this _will_ happen again tomorrow, that you’re going to get beaten up, and it makes your eyes prick with tears. However, it’s the thought that the kid is going to go home and get it ten times worse that brings you to _sob_.

Hal remains silent, even as you’re scooped up in Bro’s hold. Even when you move to shove the shades up into your hair in favor of burying your face into Bro’s neck, letting out miserable cries. Letting yourself be weak, not remembering that this isn’t a good thing to do. That this is behavior he doesn’t tolerate. You stifle the noise a little when you feel a grip just shy of bruising on your thigh where he’s holding you. A warning.  
  
Even during the car ride home with Bro, who’s not having this pity party, you’re crying. You manage to shush your sniffles when he gives you a hard stare, somehow visible through his unchanging facial expression and shades. The tears don’t stop, but the noises do.  
  
You hurt so bad, it’s all you can manage to whine at him as he carries you up the stairs. He got tired of waiting on your slowness. You worry a little about maybe not being okay, but he certainly isn’t bringing you anywhere to check for a concussion or damage. Hospitals aren’t a thing you guys do. They’d take you away from him if they saw all your scars and bruises. They don’t understand. You hate them. You love your Bro, why would they take you away from him? You’d never understand.  
  
Once you two get home, Bro grabs the nearest piece of clothing to swap your nasty hoodie with. It’s just one of his stupid band-tees. You rid yourself of the hoodie as quick as you can, hating how it sticks to your skin at this point, and swap it with the new and mostly clean shirt. He had you take some expired medicine for nausea, you can only hope it works. Then he told you to get and stay in bed, but not without giving you a trash can.

You stop him before he can exit your room. “What, kid?” He sounds exhausted. His gig must have gone bad because of how he had to leave early to fetch you. You feel a little guilty. “Will you lay down with me..?” You ask, sheepish as a lamb. Bro sighs through his nose.

He’s strong, feels safe and warm. You’re so hopeful he’ll agree. You only ever feel safe when it’s him who holds onto you. You stare at him for a moment as he seems to think it over. The hopeful bubble pooling in your gut is soon popped. He just shakes his head, leaves the room and closes your door behind himself. You try not to cry when he leaves, but as you move to lay down you’re forced over the side of the bed as you almost throw up again. That time, you do start to cry again. Carefully silent, which only puts more pressure on everything that hurts. You stay curled up in your bed, holding onto your stomach because dammit it _hurts_ to cry like this.  
  
Only now, mid-sob does Hal finally reply.

TT: He didn’t stay with you.

TG: no

TT: Why did he leave?

TG: im too old for that crap

TG: why would he stay

TT: I see.

TT: It seems he’s changed quite a bit since I last spoke with him.

TG: what do you mean

TT: When I was last awake he was quite a wimp, really. He did seek to hide this fact, but he certainly was one none the less.

TG: what do you mean

TT: He was the type of person who would not have left someone to cry or hurt alone.

You actually scoff at that. That mere idea burns. It hurts a lot more than any of the pain you’re in. Does he hate you that much? Enough to just… Change like that? You feel your hands shake, a whimper stuck in your throat. Before you can reply to him, you notice a different chat waiting to be opened on your phone. That’s right, Hal isn’t connected to the internet. He can’t get your chat updates. You grab your phone, look to see who it is.

The purple is an oddly relaxing color because you know who’s behind those words. She always has your back. Your tears finally ease a little.

TT: Dave, are you okay?

TG: yeah

TT: My sister senses have been activated most thoroughly, I get the etching feeling that you are, in fact, not okay.

TG: lmao im good

TG: damn im finer than a nicely bred horse of the coolest making

TG: better than your grannys awesome soup she makes when its cold and youre sick

TG: better than the smell of roses on a date between two sickly horny teens

TT: Was today as awful as the last two?

TG: yeah

TG: it was


End file.
